TITLE: Str8 Eight
NAME: Mik
E-MAIL: mik_dok@yahoo.com
CATEGORY: M/K
RATING: NC-17. M/K. This story contains slash i.e. m/m sex. So, if
you don't like that type of thing - STOP NOW! Forewarned is
forearmed. Proceed with caution. Of course if you have four arms you
can throw caution to the wind.
SUMMARY: The case in California that Chris didn't tell you about.
ARCHIVE: Only with my permission.
FEEDBACK: Feedback? Well, yes, if you insist .
TIMESPAN/SPOILER WARNING: This is right after 3.
KEYWORDS: story slash angst Mulder Krycek NC-17
DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Alex Krycek, and all other X-Files characters
belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions and 20th Century Fox
Broadcasting. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is
being made from their use. I'd rather say that they really are mine,
but I've been advised to deny everything. But when I become king ...
Hey, wait a minute, I am the king. Mik, the Wikked, King of the
Cliffhangers. Bow before me and beg for resolution ... oh, yeah, and
a happy ending.
Author's notes: Go here to see the fantastic picture that Neige did for this story ... http://www.lerefuge.ca/partners.jpg For the recipe for the Carbonated Cum Bubble, go here ... http://www.angelfire.com/oh4/homeofthegoddess/cocktails.html
If you like this, there's more at https://www.squidge.org/3wstop If you didn't like it, come see me, anyway. Pet the dog.
Str8 Eight
by Mik
Pain. Always pain. Pain as response to pleasure. Pain as punishment. Pain as reward. Is this all you did tonight? With that face, with that ass you should be bringing in twice as much. I could cut you up ... you don't need to be so pretty if this is all you're going to do.
Knives. Pain. Sex. Losing myself in fantasies while they get off on me. Someday I'll be the one getting off on them. Someday.
Voices. Demanding voices. Angry voices. Impatient. Bitter. They always make my head ache, and sometimes my body hurt as well. The Pain gets so bad sometimes. But it will be over soon. Relief, release ... it's all the same. Sleep ... death ... either one. Don't care anymore.
Women. Never cared. Mother. Lovers. Scully. Bitch. That woman ... more bitterness. More pain. Oh, God!
It's okay now. I'll sleep. I'll die. It will stop. Her face. Looking over me. Worried. Then warmth. He'd pulled off his shirt. Covered me. Smiled. It's okay now.
*******************************************
I opened my eyes slowly. The light was bright. Too bright. I blinked hard and tried to move again, but I was still tied down. That fucking freak! I'll kill him.
A light hand on mine. A light in my eyes. "Agent Krycek? Can you hear me?"
I tried to turn my head. My neck burned where the ropes cut into it, where his knife ... his knife ...
"Easy, Agent Krycek. You're going to be okay." The hand moved up my arm. "Just lie still. Lie still now."
"Wh -- what's happening?" My voice seemed to whistle inside me, raspy and empty. "The guy ... there was ..."
The voice was closer. "It's all over now, Agent Krycek ... you're going to be okay."
My eyes finally started to focus. Noises around me started to make sense. I was in an emergency room. There was a woman looking down at me. Dark face, serious eyes, calm expression. Looked Native American. "Mulder," I whispered. Mulder, I need you.
"I want you to stop talking for a few minutes, Agent Krycek." She had something shiny in her hands. A knife? He tried to slit my throat! "Agent Krycek, do I need to sedate you?" Her voice was even but firm.
"No. I'm ..." Speaking was such an effort. "I'm all right." I sent my eyes right and left. "I need to speak to ..." Mulder. Please don't leave me now.
"No." Still firm. Still calm. "Right now you just need to rest." A simple gesture ... that's all it took ... a crook of her finger, and someone was injecting me. But I didn't mind. Sleep was so welcome.
*******************************************
He was sitting in a chair at the foot of the bed, a book in his lap, one foot propped on a stainless steel cart. His hair was in his eyes, his glasses had slid down his nose. But he was awake. I could tell by the way he was breathing. I turned toward him as much as my bandages would allow. "Did they get him?"
He looked over the rims of his glasses, and closed the book. "Yeah, the tide pulled him out before the divers could get to him, but he showed up yesterday morning down at RAT beach, pretty much nothing left but shark shit and seaweed. How's that for justice?" He was smiling slightly, grimly.
"'Rat' beach?"
He chuckled ... a little sound of air forced out of him. "That's what they tell me ... Right At Torrance or something like that. It's a surfer thing." He lowered his foot, tossed the book on the cart and stretched, arms high over his head, emphasizing parts of his lean body I never got to touch. I know I was staring hungrily. He was merely looking at places to look that wouldn't actually mean looking at me. "So ... got my 302s to go home in the morning. I guess ... I ... I don't know if I'll see you when you get back."
Home. We're going back ... what is he saying? "I'm not going back with you?"
"Are you kidding? Not in your condition." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "That dragon who saw you in the ER the other night says you're in for another two or three days, minimum."
"She seemed nice to me." So, this is it? Goodbye? Thanks for saving my life and I'll see you around the water cooler sometime.
He looked at me finally, tugging his glasses free and rubbing them over the hem of his shirt. "Yeah, but that's because you were being a good boy, lying still on the table while she treated you. I was only trying to talk to you, and she not so politely suggested my time might be better spent with a Foley, restraints and rectal exams on the hour."
I winced sympathetically. "Uh ... Mulder ... I ... should ... I should tell you --"
He put up a hand. "Look, you do what you need to do, Kry -- Alex." I have to give him credit for meeting my eyes then. "I know what I did was so colossally wrong it can't ever be made right. If you want to press charges, I won't fight it. Okay?"
I blinked at him. "Press charges? For that?" I know my smirk was superior and sardonic at the same time. "After what I went through with Professor Wonder Bra, that was practically Romeo and ... and ... Hamlet."
He chuckled again. It twisted half his mouth up and made one shoulder go up and down. The smile faded, the shoulder stilled. A frown fell down over his face. "Well, anyway ... I'm sorry." He held out a hand. "I'm going back to the hotel and pack up. Do you need anything before I get outta' Dodge?"
I took his hand. It was warm. Firm. I wanted to hold on forever. "A foamy Americano from Starbucks?" I asked, letting go. Damn it, not like this. Mulder. We need to talk. We can't just pretend none of this happened. You're a psychologist. You know better.
He scratched an unshaved cheek. "If I thought I could sneak it in here ..." He sighed and reached for his book. "Well, I'll see you around the water cooler sometime, huh?" He took two steps and looked over his shoulder, his eyes not quite coming to mine. "We did good work, Krycek. We got the bad guy. Let's not ever forget that, okay?"
"I'll never forget," I promised. There's so much I'll never forget.
*******************************************
They gave Scully back to him. I could only watch from the sidelines, but I knew he'd nearly torn the hospital apart trying to find out what happened to her. I'd even managed to see him once or twice, hovering outside her room with members of her family, or maybe that pompous A.D., Skinner. His grief was so great it was palpable, and even from my discreet vantage point I could feel the rawness of it jammed into his throat as he fought back tears and fought for answers. I wanted to comfort him. Hell, I wanted to take credit for getting her back to him, but I couldn't. He didn't need to know what I'd done to get those people to agree.
But he loved her. He'd told me that. He'd been very fair all along. I fell for him anyway. I thought I could change him, bend him a little. Not that one. Too straight. The things that happened between us were just accidents.
I got word that Scully was dying, though. I heard he'd waited all night at her side, saying goodbye after they'd pulled the plug. I knew he would feel so lost when she was gone.
I'd been told to stay away, but I went anyway. I had an excuse, after all. I still had the sweat stained henley he'd pulled off in that boat shed and draped over me to give me a little dignity. I had to return it, didn't I?
I didn't knock. I let myself in. He was crouched in a doorway, in tears. His apartment had been trashed, as I knew it would be. But that he had been trashed was more than I could stand. I dropped the shirt and knelt beside him, wanting to enfold him in a comforting embrace. All I could do was touch his shoulder. "Mulder?"
He didn't start at my touch. He turned his face up to mine, tears glistening like two icy streams through dark, barren land. "Did you do this?" he whispered raggedly.
"No." I didn't. I knew about it, but I didn't do it.
"She's dying." He didn't sob the words, but they came out broken anyway, as if his tongue refused to pronounce them correctly.
"I know." I didn't know what else to say.
"I could have stopped this ... them." He spread his hands as if to include the detritus of wrong that was his apartment. "But I stayed with her. Tried to ... I tried."
"I know," I repeated. I know what he tried. He tried to bring her back, to save her. Now he needed to save himself.
Feeling shuddered through him violently. "And I couldn't change a thing. Not a d -- damned thing."
I pulled the sleeve of my pullover up over my palm and brushed tears from his face. He didn't even flinch. "Maybe she won't die, Mulder," I whispered. "People can do amazing things when they have to. Or," I had to back away from him. I was desperate to kiss him. "Or, when they want to."
He was still gazing up at me as if I was an apparition; a saint or a demon summoned by his grief. "They say there's no hope," he told me.
"What about you? Do you have no hope?"
He shook his head and that broke the spell. He scrabbled at the tears with his fingers, and shifted on his haunches. "I haven't had hope in years," he said bitterly.
"Then what do you believe in?" I persisted quietly. This emptiness hurt me. I wanted him full of his amazing and often incomprehensible feelings ... even the rage that made him hit me now and again.
"Nothing." He stood on shaky legs. "There's nothing to believe in."
"No. Don't say that." I grabbed his arm, angrily. "There's strength in your convictions. Without them, you're weak. Helpless. Don't ever be helpless, Mulder." I turned him and forced him against the doorframe. "What," I demanded, shaking him, "do you believe in?"
He stared at me, openmouthed. I was no longer a ghost, no longer something conjured from his anger and defeat. I could see the transition in his eyes. I was real. Something solid. To hate, to vilify, perhaps, but something to believe in. His hands came up slowly, to my forearms, and held me. Then he pulled me to him, kissed me hard.
I felt his hunger, his anger, his fire, his need, his breath and blood all build and blend and pour into me. I opened my mouth and took it all like communion wine.
His hands slid up my arms, over my shoulders, around my head. His kiss wasn't so much a kiss as it was consumption. I was being devoured. His lips moved everywhere, tasting every part of me, his tongue even flickered over my eyelashes. His hands held me still as he sucked and licked and chewed his way around my chin, under my ear, and then, almost reverently, along the thin white scar where a madman had tried to slice me into silence.
I had my fingers locked in the fabric of his shirt, but my legs were wobbly and it was only his hands around my head that kept me upright.
He felt me give under him, and he pulled back, his hands sliding to my shoulders, albeit lightly, to offer me support.
I didn't want to let go. I didn't want him to let go. I wanted to go on forever and ever in that doorway. My body against his told me that he wanted it to go on for a while, at least. I searched his face. The tears were gone, seared away by the flush that made him glow as he panted and swallowed, eyes clenched tight. "What do you want?" I whispered.
He swallowed again. He opened his eyes and looked down at me, then his gaze skittered away almost guiltily. "That night ... in the john. You ... you ..."
I smiled, melting gratefully inside. "You want me to give you a blow job?" I asked softly, already starting to slide to the floor.
His hands stopped me. "The bedroom. It's not too wrecked."
We picked and stumbled through the disaster they had left behind, and he barely even glanced at anything, anymore than to note his monitor had been smashed, and his file cabinet overturned. But he didn't stop. He followed me into the room.
He never slept in here. It was obvious that his room was little more than a hallway from his bathroom and closet to the rest of the apartment. His bed was covered with the laundry scattered from a basket on the floor, and the contents of his briefcase, but he ignored all that, snatching bedclothes and tossing them back so that everything was vaulted into the air and down to the floor. He kissed me again, hard, and pulled us both onto the bed.
I was on top of him, grinding myself against him, kissing him with unabashed passion. His arms were wound around my waist, his hands warm and mobile, pushing up under my shirt to glide over my back. His hips pushed up against me. I wanted him so bad ...
I started sliding down his body, pushing his legs apart with mine as I eased down to the floor. He lifted his head to watch me as I unfastened his jeans and lifted his hips to pull them down. He was hard and thick and lifting up to meet me. I shifted him, bringing him to the edge of the bed, and hovered over him, drawing him into my mouth.
At first contact, he let out a loud groan and groped for me. I pushed his hands away, holding his glans hard against the roof of my mouth, letting my tongue scrub the sensitive underside, while I wrapped my hand around the shaft and started to pump.
He was so close. His balls had practically disappeared against his cock, and the taste of blood and semen was strong on his skin. He was moaning, almost sobbing. I lifted my head and looked at him, still pumping him. "Do you want to come this way or do you --"
He grabbed my face and held tight. "I want ..." Another shudder, another kind of feeling. "I want to come in you, but ..." He opened his eyes. "You were hurt."
Ohhhh, gavna. Lost. Dropping down into the abyss of thoughtlessness and dreams. I came there fully intending to take him, make love to him, make him know how much I felt. But that ... how could I surrender the one chance I might have to feel him making love to me? I backed away from him, and started unbuttoning my jeans. "I'm okay. We'll just take it slow this time, okay?" I tried to smile at him as I took lube and condoms from my pocket and handed them to him. "You don't have anything to prove this time, do you, Mulder?"
His hands trembled. "I am so sor --"
I kissed him swiftly. "Make love to me, please?"
He looked up, his eyes that same wide incredulous pool of Russian sea I had seen not so long ago, in an alley in Los Angeles.
"Do you want to?" I prompted.
He nodded. "Yes."
We didn't waste anymore time. We were naked in another minute, and he was arranging the bedclothes to welcome me into his bed. He wasn't exactly certain what to do, so I rolled onto my back, and lifted my knees. "Lots of lube," I said, trying not to stammer. I was so damned hard and so damned in love. "Take it slow."
He was lying next to me, considering my extremely wanton and oddly vulnerable position. "Are you sure?" he whispered.
"Do it now, Mulder," I said with an urgent edge. "I need it. Need you. Now."
He shifted into position, banging a cheek on my upraised knee. His fingers were warm, uncertain, overcautious, but he was thorough. He even paused to take a look at me, as if assessing damage. "Bastard," I heard him mutter. Then he moved over me, guided his cock against me, eased in slow.
It didn't hurt as much as either of us expected. Still, it did hurt. I willed myself to relax and not react to any pain and put him off. Years of training came into play. If he had looked at me, he would have seen serene pleasure. If he had looked at me.
He was gliding in slowly, his arms on either side of me, his lean body arched over me, his head tipped forward, his teeth set on his lower lip, his eyes closed.
"Mulder," I said softly, "don't close your eyes tonight. I want you to know it's me."
When he came, he said my name.
*******************************************
Bright sunlight was pouring through the dusty curtains. I shifted and sighed. I felt liquid and well used. I felt ... happy.
I opened my eyes. I was alone.
I got up, hunted for jeans, and staggered into the bath. Clean-up last night in the wake of such intense orgasm had been careless and incomplete. I was sticky and still mottled with cum. I warmed a washcloth with water and wiped at my chest and belly as I emptied my bladder. My ass was tender, and loose and I felt empty. I flushed, splashed water on my face, and stepped into my jeans.
I staggered out into the main room to find him filling a large plastic trash bag with debris. He was smiling. Hell, he was grinning. "'Morning," I said, feeling warm and happy. I moved to take him into my arms.
He shifted the grin to me. A genuine `circus is in town and Santa came today' smile. "She's awake. She woke up this morning. She's going to be okay."
I froze, arms outspread. I felt like an idiot, so I shrugged. "That's great news. When did this happen?"
"I got the call about four this morning." He tied a knot in the top of the bag. "She looks great. She was sitting up and talking to her mother and sister."
I went icy inside. "You've seen her?" You left me, left our bed to go and see her?
"Yeah." He dragged the bag to a corner to join a pile of others. He was still smiling, oblivious. "She doesn't remember what happened to her, of course, but that's not what matters right now. What matters is she's alive."
"Yes, I guess that's what matters." Now I felt like a giant ass ... tender and empty and well used. I looked down at my hands, hands that last night had clutched his body and begged him never to let me go. I dragged them back through my hair. "Hey, I really need to take a shower. Think I could have some coffee before I go?"
He looked up from a stack of magazines. "Go?"
"Yeah ... I ... well ..." I shrugged. "I wasn't supposed to come here, but I'd heard about Scully, and I wanted to see if you were okay." I risked a glance toward him. He was frowning at the cover of a magazine. "You're okay. She's okay. Everything's going to be all right."
"I guess." He dumped the stack of magazines into a bag. "I thought you were going to stay for a little while. I brought bagels and stuff."
Well, that's not fair. "Hey, great."
"Hey, Krycek?"
I stopped at the door. "Hmm?"
"How much Russian do you speak?"
Instant alert. "What makes you think I speak any?"
He shook his head. "Because you do. I've heard you. A couple of times. So ... how much do you speak?"
I bit my lip. "A lot," I confessed. "English is actually my second language."
"Well, I knew that," he laughed. "You use too much slang and sometimes you get it wrong." He stood and dragged the last bag of trash to the corner. "Were you born there or something?"
I nodded jerkily. "In Georgia. Russian Georgia."
"Huh." He went into the kitchen, and came out with a cup of coffee. He seemed completely unconcerned by this revelation. "Miss it?"
I shook my head. "No. I never want to go back." I took the coffee cup he held for me. "Why are you asking me all this?"
"I just wondered if you could translate something for me." He hitched a slip of paper out of his pocket. "I took it down phonetically, but I think I might have it spelled right." He held it out to me.
I glanced over it. I looked at him. "Where did you get this?"
He shrugged, took the cup from me and sipped. "I heard it." He passed the cup back. "I'll get you some towels and some clean socks and stuff."
"Thanks." I looked down at the paper again. What was he telling me? Ya tyebya Lyublyu. I love you.
I took my shower, changed into the clean socks, and shirt and my own jeans and came back out to put on my shoes. He'd done a remarkable job of restoring order to his apartment, and was now in the kitchen, bustling around and whistling off-key and piercingly. Having the woman he loved restored to him was definitely a good thing for him.
"Find everything okay?" He brought me a plate with bagels, lox and cream cheese.
"Yeah, I borrowed your razor. I hope you don't mind." I ignored the plate. I had to get out of there before I started to cry. This was one pain, one punishment I couldn't fantasize away.
"Not at all." He was watching me. "So ... what does that mean?"
"Oh ... it means I love you." I tried to sound offhand about it. "Where did you hear it?"
"From you."
I started. "When?"
"Last night."
I jumped up, ignoring the fact that my shoes were untied. "I have to go. I'm really glad Scully's okay and --"
"Hey, you know, I had to take something to Scully when I went to see her this morning." He was playing with his stacks of CDs, completely unaware of how frantic I was. "I'm not really a flowers kinda' guy. Never was. So I took her a football video." He turned around grinning again, in that wonderful, endearing self-effacing way. "Anyway, I picked up a new CD while I was there." Music started to spill into the room from surprisingly good speakers. He held out his arms. "Come on, Alex. Dance with me. Our song."
He remembered. He remembered a silly remark I made to distract him back in the bar. Dumbfounded, I let him pull me into his arms as Frank Sinatra started to sing The Way You Look Tonight.
He held me close, body to body, one hand caressing the back of my neck. "I didn't need to keep my eyes open last night," he whispered softly, and kissed my cheek. "I knew who I was with." He pulled back and looked at me, and there was more meaning revealed in his eyes than in a thousand speeches. "I knew it was you."
- END -
